


In Pitch Dark I Go Walking in Your Landscape

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Just because you feel it doesn't mean it's there.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Pitch Dark I Go Walking in Your Landscape

"You lose focus when you see him - your mind is filled with nothing but pure rage and pain." Charles is tying the rope calmly around Erik's wrists, surely and with ease of practice, and where did he learn that - _Bored children pick up many things._

"Lonely children pick up many things," Erik corrects him, and it's a testament to Charles' determination that all he says in reply is, "Are the ropes too tight?" They are, but the ropes were always too tight. Erik's already starting to hyperventilate.

"There should be padding underneath the ropes," Charles mutters in disapproval, but it's an argument they've already had and one Erik won: without the burn, he can't sufficiently fall into belief. "I could induce the pain without causing hurt," Charles says now, winding the rope down to Erik's feet, twisting expertly. His strong fingers squeeze around Erik's ankle briefly, and Erik twitches at the contact.

They're in Charles' dungeon. Erik's unsure as to why Charles has a dungeon - he tried to pass it off as a cellar fallen to disrepair at first, but eventually he just admitted, "The estate is old. It has many secrets. Most of which would be better off left buried." Charles has removed all metal he could find, but still Erik seeks out anything that he can use as a weapon. Charles is the most obvious target: _You might want to remove your watch,_ Erik tells him. _And those coins in your pocket._ He smiles wryly. "Your zipper."

Charles looks at his watch as if he's surprised he hadn't thought of its metallic properties before, even though Erik's been creative with the metal Charles chooses to wear often enough. Eventually he shrugs and says, with very little care, "I suppose I'll have to trust you'll be able to exercise self-control then."

"What if I hurt you?"

"You won't hurt me," and the faith he radiates makes Erik want to crawl into a small space or crawl into Charles, he can never decide which.

"You trust too much."

"Yes, so you've said," Charles replies, again unconcerned. The ends of the rope he winds around, secures to a hook buried in the wall that Hank assured them is some sort of polymer - Erik knows it's not metal, and that's enough.

"Shall we begin," Charles says, and he doesn't wait because it's Schmidt mouthing those words, in his terrible German, and Erik had told Charles earlier, when they were in the midst of negotiating this bit of madness, "He switched to English when no-one was around. I understood only parts of it - I should have known then." And Charles had said both, "There was nothing else you could have done," and, "I already know," and most of him is still rendered ill at the thought of exactly what Charles knows, all of his secrets and all his shame, but if not for that knowledge they wouldn't be here to begin with:

Schmidt going, "You're such a good boy, Erik," and Erik screaming, unable to move.

"I can't do this," he says, and the ropes are wrong and everything is wrong and he's screaming and desperate and angry and so alone and Schmidt is still alive, still crouching over him waiting for him to break. Charles, he tries to remind himself, it's only Charles. It's only a projection ripped from the recesses of his own mind. Less than a memory, even. It doesn't matter though, not when the world is going dark, not when he can't breathe and the sweat is slick down his body, the ropes tightening as he twists against them. "Stop," he moans, in German or English, he can't tell. "Please stop." Schmidt still smiles beatifically down at him, his palm soft on Eriks cheek. "Please," Erik pleads, and at some point he realizes he's not spoken a word out loud yet. _Please._ He can't move at all, and that's not due to the ropes. _I'm sorry, I can't -_

Everything recedes, and then it's just Charles, pink cheeked and red lipped, staring down at him. He looks confused, uncertain. "Are you all right?"

Erik chokes down bile. "You tell me, you're the expert."

"I'm hardly that." The uncertainty radiating from him deepens, and he says abruptly, "It's not as if I've had much experience in the matter, Erik. I don't. Perhaps we should stop." Of course it makes sense that Charles is floundering as much as Erik is, it's doubtful he's had much -

"Lonely child, yes," Charles comments wryly, lips twisting up in a small smile. "It's not as if there's a rulebook for this. I want to help you." And even with Charles deliberately keeping himself out, Erik can feel his yearning, his need to be useful. To have a gift whose purpose extends beyond parlour tricks and the invasion of someone else's thoughts. This at least, Erik understands, although he'd found his purpose years ago. Or it was forced upon him, forged in blood and rage and steel.

"I trust you," Erik tells him finally, and it occurs to him then, that possibly he does so only because Charles wants him to, so very badly. It's not the first time he's had this thought, but it is the first time he's been in this vulnerable a position. But then again, with Charles, Erik could be armed to the teeth with metal and he could still go down with a mere thought.

"You overestimate my powers," Charles says, the irony escaping him until the moment Erik thinks it, then he visibly withdraws, says, "I'm sorry. I can't help it." _Not with you,_ and it makes Erik shake, the idea that permission, once given, will always be implicit, and even worse, that he himself will never be willing to say no. Even now, Charles is slipping back in, and Erik doesn't want him to stop. "Should we try again," he asks softly, and Erik nods his head, sharp.

 _\- yes, you can. Erik, he's just a man. You don't have to fear him._ Charles, infinitely calm, and Erik hitches in a breath, realizes he hadn't been breathing. _You have to face what you fear most, Erik. It's not Shaw._

 _Of course it's Shaw._ He tries to cling to that, even as he knows it's not true. Even as he knows it's fear of failure once again and again and again. Months of planning to get away, all the metal that surrounded them all the time and Schmidt casually wielding an instrument made out of steel and telling him, "This will only hurt if you fight it, ya," and Erik learning quickly to do exactly as told. Don't fight, don't scream, move the metal only exactly as directed. Dimly, he's aware that he's started to cry, and he can't tell if the fingers brushing away the tears are Schmidt's or Charles. He turns into the palm anyway, seeking comfort, seeking absolution.

"Clear your mind. You have to clear your mind." And that's definitely Charles, bright and clear as always, cutting through the dark as if he were made of sunlight itself. "You don't have to remain trapped, Erik. For you, there is always a way."

And every muscle in his body relaxes, as if it had never been racked with tension before, and his mind is a bell, a weapon, and: and there is a knife, hidden in the far recesses of this room, far enough that he hadn't been able to track its presence earlier. A knife that sings to him, pure perfect steel. Erik blinks sweat out of his eyes, opens them fully for the first time. Looks at Schmidt straight on for the first time. And Charles says, not looking behind him as the knife arcs through the air, headed to where it belongs:

"Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> For the **bondage (other)** square.


End file.
